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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27816931">Break the crown, not your heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thousand_thoughts/pseuds/thousand_thoughts'>thousand_thoughts</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fantasy setting, King!George, M/M, Middle Ages, assassin!dream</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:34:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27816931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thousand_thoughts/pseuds/thousand_thoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A child wants his throne, the king should watch his back. It may look like a dream but trust me, boy, your mind will be a nightmare. </p><p>Dream has quite the reputation in the Venor Guild, often regarded as the nightmare assassin. When he gets the task to kill King George he thought it would be an easy feat, too bad that he has a heart with feelings</p><p>___---___---___</p><p>This is my first ever long fic and I am really hyped for it. Keep in mind that English is not my first language.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Wildevalley</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Content warnings:<br/>-Alcohol in a bar setting<br/>-Minor blood at the end</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
  <span>If you ever think of turning back you are a coward, if you ever think of telling the truth you are a traitor, and if you ever think to fall in love with your target… then you are better off as dead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At a quarter past midnight, a thunder made its way through the dark oak forest that surrounded the village. The brutal rainfall that had arrived the night prior muffled any indication of what was to come for the innocent souls currently sleeping in their warm homes. In one of the only opens inns, a group of young men had just finished their third round for the night and a woman was playing a cheerful tune on the piano as lingering guests made their way outside. Josephine, a fair young lady hooked her arm around her husband and looked towards the village gate. She would later that night remember the flash of silver she saw in the outskirts, the resemblance being that of bridle’s shiny buckles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Small and drenched rabbits fled from the pounding of hooves that followed them. The normally compact layer of dirt and decomposing leaves were being stirred around thanks to the horse’s fast pace. The man riding did a futile attempt at wiping his wet mask only for the rain to cover it seconds later. He scoffed and urged his horse to run faster, she grunted and powered through the last stretch of land. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where the trees thinned and morphed into rolling fields of overgrown grass he had put a halt to his journey. In the shadows from the forest, he would be concealed enough to not be discovered but still have a full view of the landscape to his north. The journey had only started mere days ago, it was not often he got a target of this status. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___---___---___</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From the room at the end of the darkly lit hallway came the sound of stone grinding metal, indicating that the man he searched was up early to prepare. An almost burnt out candle illuminated the cold tiles and led way for the man, a scroll was tucked in his brown leather belt. The messenger owls had just returned for the night and for once there was a rolled-up paper assigned to a masked man. One of the most notable characteristics of the message had been the sigil stamped in wax to keep the paper secured. A classic red stamp in the shape of two music discs seemingly floating in mid-air as if controlled by some supernatural force. As he turned up to the wooden door, he knocked twice before entering the blacksmith. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sharp sound ceased for a moment before continuing. Techno held the scroll with a limp wrist, pointing it to the man before him. The said man tilted his head and furrowed his brows, there seemed to be no acknowledging of the scroll. Clearly annoyed, the piglin let out a huff and threw the message towards the younger man. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now that was just unnecessary man,” Dream’s cold exterior broke. With newfound curiosity, he reached with long fingers to fetch the scroll that had fallen to the floor. See Dream had quite a reputation when it came to the dark world of assassins. He was known as the nightmare of assassins, a rather humorous play on his name. How he had acquired such a reputation was still speculated, some people comparing him to a god-like being with enough power to destroy worlds if he so wished. Dream would often scoff at these ludicrous theories but not for the reason that people would think he found it amusing. They had no idea how close they were to the truth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___---___---___</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Under the cover of a makeshift shelter, he reached for the leather saddlebag. The buckles were wet and slippery and the waxed exterior was dripping but the content inside was dry and undamaged. He reached for the pocket hidden in the seam where the bottom hit the back wall and pulled, a hidden compartment revealing itself. There the scroll laid, as perfect as it had been three days ago. When he unfurled the parchment, the rough and sharp characters greeted him. Just from the seconds he spent looking at the title and greeting, he knew who this was from. Tommy Innit. The young deviant who had fled from his own kingdom at the age of 17, giving up his right to the throne for what he deemed was justice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Dear Dream. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>It has taken me months to gather enough resources to pay you, I despise that I have to. At the time of writing this I have decided to take back my throne. I want to rebuild my kingdom on my own morals. There is a barricade in my way. You see Dream, I have acquired something that could be of value to you. For you to get what I possess, I need you to kill the man currently running MY rightful kingdom. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Bring me King George’s head and you will receive a Nether Star. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>I know you want it. Good luck, you nightmare.  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Signed, Tommy Innit.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a classic Tommy move, keeping a letter composed but somehow insulting Dream as much as he could. For how young the kid was, he was a skilled hunter as well as a leader. In the future, Dream was sure that he would be a fine addition to the Venor Guild. But for now, he would allow the kid to play leader and think high and mighty of himself, there would be no backfire for Dream himself so for the moment, he frankly didn’t care. There was a chance that Tommy would eventually find the formula to achieve the highest level of power. The percentages were small and treading on the line of nonexistent but Dream had learned from countless endeavors that no matter how small the chance, it could happen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The masked man hid the letter inside the saddlebag again and reached up to stroke his horse’s legs. She had done well today. He laid down on the moss, one hand behind his head and the other resting on his stomach. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wake me up in a few,” He said to her and closed his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___---___---___</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The village of Wildevalley had seen its fair share of strange and unique characters. From the pyromaniac in martial arts clothing to the boy who accidentally stole 6 acres worth of bee nests, they were not uncommon. It should have been predicted that another peculiar being was to pass through the main street somewhere around 9 am on a Tuesday morning. But it just so happened that the village oracle was out of town because of a family business. In the Connor &amp; Co inn from the previous night, the bartender was dusting a wooden bar. He was per usual open since 8 am but no customers ever really came until well afternoon. So it was only natural for him to be startled when the thin wooden door swung open at exactly ten minutes past 9. In strolled a rather bland figure, his stature was easily over 6 feet with strong broad shoulders covered by a basil green cloak. The hood was pulled up and shielding the man's face from view, still, the bartender distinguished what seemed to be white glistening under the thick fabric. What a peculiar figure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In an odd fashion, the man softly closed the door behind him and slowly let his shielded eyes wander the room. They seemed to linger on the back door and the window situated on the right wall, he nodded to himself and steered his steps towards the bar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good morning Sir, what can I help you with this fine day?” Connor spoke and threw his dusting rag over his shoulder in a way that would be deemed unsanitary to most. The man seemed to think for a moment, resting his head in his hand and looking upwards at the blackboard littered with prices and food options. Now with a clear view of the white quartz mask, Connor could see a neatly drawn smile in jet black ink, the eyes that were mere dots stared past him in a way that made him shudder. What was up with this man? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me,” the man turned to look at the inn logo hung up on the wall to his left, “Connor,”. His chin became visible under the mask, giving away his smile. “What can I get for 10 gold nuggets?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, well…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After 10 minutes the bartender had prepared one of the inn’s classic breakfast, though rarely served, it was a delight. To his sudden surprise, when he turned around to serve the dish, a mask laid on the wood. Clearly puzzled, he turned his gaze to meet the eyes that were previously hidden. The man smiled when his unnaturally green eyes met Connors, “I hope you didn’t think that the mask was a part of me,” he laughed out and gripped the fork in front of him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Connor could only do so much as to shake his head and turn to polish the rows of glasses behind him, there were so many odd things about this fellow. In particular was the broad leather belt that wrapped itself around the man’s waist, on his right hip it extended across his chest and over his shoulder. He assumed that it was mimicked on the back as well. The belt was decorated with hoops, around his waist hung pouches that seemed heavy with small treasures although none of them made a sound when he moved. The belt stretching across his chest was adorned with vials strapped to the leather, filled with strange and enchanting liquids. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Deciding to engage in comedy as a means to find out more about this strange man, he opened his mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Must be real good liquor if it’s glowing like that,” he gestured towards the man's belt and received a chuckle in return. It seemed his jokes were well received with this man, a quality he could accept. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If they were as easy to get as cognac then trust me, I would have a chest full,” Now finished with his food, the man pulled out one of the vials from its place and swirled it around. He watched as the potion shifted color and glistened in the dim light. Connors curiosity had grown exponentially since the other first walked in and was only fueled by the new knowledge he had been presented. Soon enough he couldn’t help himself and he uttered the words he had been wanting to say since the beginning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who are you, sir?” The man's attention shifted from the bottle to Connor and he tilted his head, lowering the bottle in the process. He contemplated in his head what he should do and say, weighing the pros and cons against each other to find a conclusion. Quick green eyes searched the bar to verify that they were in fact alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever heard of the Venor Guild?” His eyes were now finding their home on the other man, establishing something kin to a staring contest. Connor slowly shook his head, not breaking the connection. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You see Connor, in this world, there are wars being fought. Every day there are psychological fights between groups and people, they can be really bloody you know. Sometimes, these wars are really really important to the people leading them. And what is the fastest way to win a war? You eradicate your opponent. That’s where I come in. The Venor Guild is an assassin organization with the best assassins in the world, and for the right price, we kill anyone.” He reached for the knife that had been left on his breakfast plate and began to twirl it in between his fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s sick…” Connor could not believe his ears, that someone would just go out and take a life because of a petty reward. Nothing in this world was more valuable than human life, whose right was it to dictate over the fate of another human being? At hearing those words leave the bartender's mouth, he scoffed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you heard of the nightmare assassin?” Slowly the man nodded after visibly swallowing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you perhaps scared of him?” He struck the bar with just enough force to nudge the knife between the fibers, leaving it standing as a silent threat. Connor nodded again, this time taking a small step back. He had since he was a child learned when to recognize this kind of behavior, often displayed in drunk people after midnight. But this was no drunken man, and the time was not even noon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That flatters me, Connor. The nightmare assassin is a pretty pretentious nickname, most of my friends just call me Dream actually.” The glasses on the shelves jingled when Connors back hit the wall behind him, words to quiet to hear ghosted on his lips as he realized who he had before him. Slowly his head began to shake from side to side, muttering the word “No” repeatedly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh yes, but now that I have told you too much, a little more won’t hurt,” He picked up his forgotten vial and returned it to his belt. With a push, he was sat crouched upon the bar, forearms resting on his knees and seeing eye to eye with the terrified innkeeper. “My name is Clay, I’m 21 years old. I love cats and jumping from mountains at dawn. In the forest outside this village stands my horse, her name is Spirit. Oh, and I kill people for a living so now it’s your turn!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before another managed to even blink, the sound of a sword being unsheathed bounced off the wooden walls. The glasses shattered when they hit the floor and surrounded the man’s dead body, a pool of blood forming at his throat. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Cumulus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The murder didn't go unnoticed. The king gets wind of some suspicious activity. </p><p>Cw:<br/>- Mentions of blood and description wounds<br/>- Nightmares<br/>- Slight memory loss</p><p>This chapter is shorter because it is simply an introduction to George's character as well as Sapnap.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If walls could talk, the world would be deaf. Because sometimes when humans feel the loneliest, all they do is talk. But when you are talking to no one, who listens to all your words? If someone were to give the ability to speak to the inner walls of the sturdy stone castle, a million words would bounce. Some citizens would believe that the monarch currently residing inside thick andesite walls would be sick of people constantly wanting to talk to him. Surely the air around the king would be buzzing with chattering people, hungry for a piece of royal attention. </p><p>But alas, King George was an extremely lonely person. It was not something the man was proud to admit but it was a reality he had learned to accept overtime. He would often be caught in a zoned-out state where the memories of earlier days plagued his mind. They swept the walls of his conscious with their cold and taunting fingers, prodding at his heart. This was how he had found himself wandering the cold corridors late at night. The arched gateways that decorated the inner courtyard allowed the light from inside to illuminate the ancient water fountain placed in the center of the lot. </p><p>The man reached the edge of the hallway and turned right at a portrait of the former king, he bowed to the painting as he passed it. It was unfortunate how King Tommy had gone out, barely held his position for more than a week before succumbing to his childish mind and fleeing the castle. The council had been in a state of panic for days, no one knew of Tommy’s relatives and so there had been no heir to the throne. By a democratic election with the inhabitants of the castle as the voters, George had been elected new king and ruler of Nubrea. </p><p>At the dawn of his election day, he had wandered around the castle like many nights before, aimlessly searching for consolation from someone unknown. Mirroring his past actions he stopped on top of the west wall and watching the final trace of sunlight disappear behind the horizon. He drew a sharp breath and the gust of wind that sent chills down his spine, the atmosphere had suddenly turned hostile and cold. With pseudo confidence, he spoke. </p><p>“I want none of your kind inside my castle walls,” his shoulders squared and gaze set on the mountains below. </p><p>“I am so sorry my highness, I will immediately leave this filthy land of yours. It stinks, like you,” at the uttering of the last sentence George couldn’t help but scoff, and when he turned around another man was sitting atop one of the merlons. The nightfall made it difficult to distinguish any identifying features but George had the man’s character forever ingrained in his brain. Brown hair that looked black at night, a white strip of fabric tied around his forehead. In a locket around his neck hung a glass vial and inside it swirled a small flame that never seemed to burn out or lose its power. Something akin to martial arts clothing was his signature style but tonight a black cape had been draped over his attire. It seemed the man had been out for a while. </p><p>“It’s nice to see you again Nick,” George stated, it had been a while since he had seen his personal messenger.  </p><p>“The feeling is mutual Your Highness,” Nick moved to hug the king and was welcomed with the cold body of the other. George hated to admit it but Nick was the only one he would ever allow himself to be hugged by, he was not that fond of physical affection. He truly was a special friend. Sometimes he felt that his messenger didn’t deserve the title of just friend, it was a special kind of relationship that had blossomed between them over the years. When they were kids they used to tell people that they were indeed brothers that got separated at birth, it was a miracle that people believed it since the two boys looked nothing alike. But as the years went by, George had stayed up many nights thinking about his friend. And maybe little George and Nick were right, perhaps they had been brothers once. Once upon a time in another world.  </p><p>The sun wholly drowned itself past the peaks and cast the land in a blanket of deep Prussian blue. Only the torches placed on the marlon a few feet away let its light flow over their features. In other circumstances, George would have considered this moment alone with his childhood friend rather nice and comforting. But Nick only comes to visit for very specifics reason, more often than not was it related to crime </p><p>“As much as I enjoy your presence here tonight, what is your purpose?” He gathered his hands behind his back. Nick increased the distance and leaned on a merlon, from his lips escaped a tired sigh. </p><p> </p><p>“There has been some… suspicious activity south of the Sandfall outpost,” for a second their eyes connected but broke when a bat split the air with a high-pitched chatter. “At 10:37 am the villagers of Wildevalley found the local bartender and inn owner dead, laying in a pool of his own blood with his throat slit. We investigated and assumed it had been a sword”. Nick’s eyes scanned the walls, presumably reassuring himself that no one in the vicinity was about to tattle on what he had to tell. George raised his eyebrows, waiting for his eyes outside of the castle to continue. </p><p>“It was no ordinary sword George,” The use of his first name brought the conversation down to a personal level. “We are used to stone swords, iron swords, and gold swords. Heck! Sometimes we even get a murderer in possession of a diamond sword. But let me tell you, George, the wound was not made by anything of this world. The wound was too clean, not even the sharpest of blades could have made such a sharp cut”.</p><p>The king’s face had stayed the same, forever limited to slight changes in expressions. Emoting deemed unfit for a king whose display should be cold and strong. </p><p>“The morning of the murder, a man had been observed walking into the Inn at breakfast. Earlier, he had spoken with a baker’s wife, apparently asking for directions to the capital. We strongly believe that something is coming your way, Your Highness,” Nick finished with a slight bow of his head and tugged his cape closer to his body, the chilling night air settling from above. </p><p>He had to admit that when he saw Nick he was not expecting the news of a possible murderer roaming his land. The majority of reports from his messenger were thefts, spies, or occult followers. But for now, the case was too new and it would be useless to send out an arrest warrant. If he were to get lucky then this was a juvenile criminal who would be easy to capture, the youth of the people were known to be rebellious no matter the kingdom. Maybe this was just one of the extremists. Still, the variable that was the sword had made the king worried, they were possibly dealing with a new set of offensive tools. If this was indeed the case, then there would be no one who could tell him what this man was capable of. </p><p>“Thank you, Nick, I will look further into the case. Are you staying?” He wanted his friend to stay just for a while longer, but he would never admit to that. Nick chuckled and looked out over the castle, towards the main building and the guest living quarters. </p><p>“I wish I could, but I never stay. You know that” And he supposed he did. Classic Nick, always moving, a byproduct of being a former arsonist. George would need several hands to count how many times he had been sent a falcon bearing the words ‘Running, see you in a month’. </p><p>George nodded and with the quick movement of his hand, he dismissed the other. </p><p>___---___---___</p><p>“No! Wait for me!” Short legs stumbled over the cobblestone path leading out of the village. The boy’s eyes started to fill with tears as the winds whipped him in the face, the land outside of the walls morphing from trampled dirt to rolling fields of grass growing taller than himself. </p><p>In the middle of a grove of birches, the other boy stood, waiting. The sunlight making its way through the net of leaves above casting spots of yellow on the ground. He closed in on the stranger, the ethereal setting making him glow like a saint in the miniature forest.</p><p>“Why are we here?” He asked the boy in the middle. For a kid that would constantly get praised by his teachers and told that he was such a sensible young man, he had no idea why he followed the boy in here. </p><p>“There is no reason, you looked so bored I was convinced you wanted to get away,” The boy was not stupid, he was actually very bored. Following his father to greet the subjects had never been fun and he would always make a big fuss about it before they left. “So, what’s your name?” the boy continued. </p><p>“I’m George, and you?” </p><p>“I’m [redacted]”</p><p>“Prince George!” The shrill voice of a woman broke the angelic atmosphere that the two boys were caged in. She closed in on them and grabbed the prince by the arm, earning a reaction in the form of a scream. The servant woman began to slowly drag him out of the grove while he was protesting, for some reason George felt a need to stay. But  [redacted] did nothing. He stayed in the middle of the flowers and grass, following George with his  [redacted] eyes. </p><p>There was a force pulling him back to [redacted]. His memories started to slip but [redacted] only waited for him in the [redacted]. The boy’s face started to get covered by clouds of scribbles, the [redacted] all over his [redacted].  [redacted] turned around and  [redacted] before  [redacted].  [redacted]  [redacted]  [redacted].</p><p>He woke up.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>[redacted]</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading the first chapter!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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